


Night Terrors

by Trobadora



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Episode: s03e12 The Sound of Drums, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-26
Updated: 2007-06-26
Packaged: 2017-10-06 19:43:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trobadora/pseuds/Trobadora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He's been comfortable - almost comfortable - with the Captain all day.</i> - Set during <i>The Sound of Drums</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Terrors

It's there.

Strumming his nerves, itching, burning, coiling up in a tight knot in his stomach.

Close. Too close. He can feel it.

He should close himself off again. No need to subject himself to this, this _wrongness_. But he can't quite stop reaching out.

Martha is sleeping fitfully on the other cot. He should try to get some sleep too. Enough that Jack is standing watch.

But he's opened himself, and now he can't stop letting himself feel.

He turns onto his back, letting out a heavy breath, staring blindly into the dark.

Just a thin wall separating him from Jack now. He'd closed himself off to the feeling, all this time - not letting himself know the Fact the universe is, for some strange reason, content to harbour without damage to reality. He felt it once in full force, just that once, on the Game Station, and he ran - oh, he ran, as fast as his TARDIS would take him, hurtling through the time vortex, away, away - -

Not far enough, though. Jack is a _fact_. He is _everywhere_, woven into the fabric of the universe. He can't be escaped. All the Doctor can do is close himself off. Refuse to look.

But all his barriers were blown away, on Malcassairo, with one look into Jack's face - so human, even with all this, still so human. Now his senses are wide open, and he _cannot stop_.

It's Truth. The ultimate. The antithesis of life.

He's not made for this, for knowing this. No one should have to know this. No one should have to live with it.

Terror, burning in his stomach, sending goosebumps over his skin.

It's too much.

He rubs a hand over his face. Over his arms, warming his skin, smoothing down the hairs that are standing on end.

It's no good.

He's been comfortable - almost comfortable - with the Captain all day. When they were running, planning, when they were busy. Now, he has no distractions. All he can do is _feel_.

He's shaking. Tense, so tense, his muscles straining, his stomach churning. He rubs his arms again. Presses a flat hand against his stomach, as if he can keep the terror inside that way, keep it from spilling, keep himself from running screaming into the night.

He lies still, paralysed, the only thing moving his hand, still skimming over his body. Still trying to soothe his burning skin. Again and again, over his arms, over his stomach, over his chest. It reaches his nipples, and he doesn't think - can't take the time to think - he pinches himself, hard.

He almost cries out. But Martha's right there, on the other side of the room, so he bites his lip.

The pain is good, so good, not blocking out the other, but somehow grounding it - grounding him. But not enough.

His hand snakes lower, almost without conscious decision, almost still trying to soothe his skin. But then it reaches his cock, and there's no pretending any more - this, this - this is what he needs. With a sigh, he gives up. Lets himself fall into the sensation.

And it engulfs him, the Truth, the terror, the utter _wrongness_ of what should never be - yet somehow, is so inevitable, so inevitably right.

His hand, moving over his cock, frantic, desperate.

So good, so good - adrenaline, endorphins, it's all just biochemistry, fear and arousal intermingling until they're indistinguishable -

He tightens his fist, convulsively.

...

And he comes, he comes - - with a muffled gasp, he comes.

As the endorphins ebb, he is left again with the wrongness in his gut.

It's still there, strumming his nerves, setting his teeth on edge. Seeped into his bones, now, into every cell of his body. An almost physical presence, beckoning him. Calling him. Connecting him, inevitably, to the man in the other room. A shameful lifeline.


End file.
